When he falls asleep over his book in the Adirondack chair out on the deck he
loses control of his neck his head tilts back his mouth gapes his hands like slack
he has gone somewhere else he is not here he is profoundly blank and he draws
his breath slowly pause slowly and then nothing and then again he breathes out
I spot him through the window passing from the washing machine to the letterbox
I freeze like the proverbial deer in the forest who has heard a twig crack underfoot
he is not here this is what it will be like when he is gone for good when his breath
stops the tender hearted scrupulous man with long slim hands will have flown he
will be gone his dark compelling scent will linger on the pillowcase until I strip
the bed and do a load and all his books a widow me viewing the shelves and shelves
of books he wakes up his book snugs his glasses up and reads head on a tilt.